


Before the Dark

by ScriptrixDraconum



Series: "Hero" Companion Piece [8]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-04-25 16:04:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 2,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4967341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScriptrixDraconum/pseuds/ScriptrixDraconum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Companion flash fiction for the "Hero Series", an interlude between "Hero by Choice" and "Hero of Light". Chapters include: Marcurio and Bird, Brelyna and Jenassa, Elodie, J'zargo and Azijjan, Onmund, Thrynn, and Yrsarald.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bird and Marcurio

“She hates that I prefer men. You know that, right?”

Marcurio was flustered. Bringing his family to visit his mother was a mistake. They should have turned back when they were still near the hot springs, maybe vacationed in Kynesgrove. That would have been nice.

“She was perfectly pleasant with me last we met,” Bird reminded his husband. “And she will be thrilled about having a grandchild, particularly one from her baby boy.”

Bird grinned even before Marcurio delivered the expected disapproving look.

“She can call me her ‘baby boy’ all she wants,” Marcurio claimed, “just as long as she avoids the whole ‘priest of Arkay’ issue.”

“Just tell her there’s more money in being a court mage. Honestly, who would turn up their noses at such a position?”

“The man from a long line of priests of Arkay should.”

Bird groaned. “I don’t understand that woman. She _loathes_ being a priestess, at least in the Hall of the Dead. How could she expect her son to want to be her apprentice?”

Flavia gurgled, awoken from her nap by the sound of her fathers’ voices. Morgana, her wetnurse, handed over the baby to Bird.

Marcurio gazed upon the little girl who looked nothing like him and everything like her father. “Stubbornness of legacy, I suppose.” The Imperial returned his gaze to his Nord husband. “I don’t want that for her.” He motioned at his daughter.

Bird’s mouth cricked up in a crooked smile. “Windhelm’s far enough away from Riften. Easy to avoid Alessandra’s pressure.” The Nord gazed down at the wriggly poop machine in his arms. “If it isn’t far enough in the end, we can just ship her off to Solitude. Betroth her to one of the Jarl’s cousin’s sons… or something. Or maybe she’ll be a super-mage like Deb. We’ll have to send her off to Winterhold for her own good.”

“Don’t even joke.”

The wetnurse and cart-driver pretended not to hear a word.

“It’s possible. You know it is. You and Deb….” Bird’s silken hair flowed as he shook his head. “If that child doesn’t have one bit of magic in her, I’m demanding a refund.”

“Bird!”

The Nord laughed. “What?” His grin was infectious, not allowing his husband to remain cross.

The pair sat silent for quite a while.

“She doesn’t look like me,” Marcurio finally admitted aloud.

Bird grunted lightly in agreement.

Marcurio had hoped that joining together with one woman at the same time might beget a child that inherited a mix of the three of them, but it was painfully obvious that his darker, stockier look was not part of what made up his daughter.

Flavia ran through a series of nonsensical noises before quieting down to nibble at her fingers.  

Bird smiled, kissed his husband’s cheek, and then swept a hand over his daughter’s delicate blonde hair. “Maybe not, Marc, but she’ll _be_ like you. I’m sure of it.”


	2. Brelyna and Jenassa

“I doubt this will work,” Jenassa grumbled, fidgeting as Brelyna fussed over the heavy contraption now strapped around her neck.

“It will work, and stop being so pessimistic.”

“This thing is going to give me back problems.”

“So will sitting around all day.” Brelyna tugged the chest strap tight before fastening the buckle. “Can you breathe?”

Jenassa inhaled deeply and huffed the air out. “Yes.”

“Good. Now, the quiver is strapped to your belt next to your sword. It can hold about ten bolts, and the mechanism on the crossbow can hold five. It’s a repeating crossbow, so you won’t have to reload every time unless you want to keep a full reservoir. You do have to crank it, though—“

“I’ve used crossbows before, Brey.”

“All right, all right.” Brelyna backed off, giving her partner some space.

She watched as Jenassa grasped the crank of the crossbow’s mechanism, and listened to the heavy ticking of growing tension. Jenassa’s body successfully braced the weapon, negating the need for a second hand.

The crossbow was ready to fire, and Jenassa positioned herself in front of the straw-filled target. Jenassa pulled the trigger, and a steel bolt shot at deadly speed into the far left of the target.

Jenassa growled, unimpressed. “To aim with my body and not the eye – this is not something to which I am accustomed.”

“Then you will learn,” Brelyna encouraged, giving Jenassa’s left shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I’ll let you get acquainted with your new friend. Salmon again, tonight. I’ll go get it started.”


	3. Elodie

It was in her blood, they had told her. Some of her ancestors had been members of the Psijic Order, and though Elodie was only half Altmer, she had inherited the required innate abilities that Psijics were able to hone.

They saved Elodie, but they couldn’t save the others at the archaeological site. They couldn’t save Osana. They didn’t _need_ to save Osana.

At first, Elodie asked the question, “Why me?” There was absolutely nothing remarkable about her. Yes, she had a link to Oblivion from all her enchanting and Conjuration magic. Yes, she was skilled in the Daedric and ancient Elven incantations. Yes, she had lost herself to a deep depression after Osana was murdered. None of these things made her singular, though, so why her?

It was her sensitivity to magical energies that first interested the Psijics. She could _hear_ the Eye of Magnus calling when no one else could. Some people are just special, they had told her. The will of the gods.

When they first came to her in bright visions, they took her consciousness elsewhere as her body lay in stasis in the ruins. They showed her all that was expected of her. They showed her the Eye. They asked her to find it, to recruit the help of the Outlander to retrieve it.

Elodie was now privy to many of the Psijic Order’s secrets. She shared their knowledge, their insight, and their abilities.

Though the Psijics had been watching for centuries, they were surprised by the Dominion’s persistence. They were particularly surprised that a local band of Thalmor had found the Staff of Magnus in the Labyrinthian. They had been certain their hiding place and various wards were strong enough to contain the artifact there forever. The Eye of Magnus, too, had been in perfect stasis within the ruins of Saarthal until the Dominion, joined by an ex-Psijic of Ayleid blood, disrupted the heavy ward and removed it from its container.

And then there was the matter of Bromjunaar. Obviously, the Dominion had somehow acquired The Key and also knew what it was used for. Again, they assumed this was leaked knowledge from the ex-Psijic who was now known as The Caller. She had been an archival apprentice, after all. She had learned of many artifacts and their locations. As the local Thalmor rats had been collecting dragon priest masks it was obvious to the Psijics they were after Konahrik, the mask of the ancient warlord of the same name. Curiously, no Thalmor had lingered in the past, nor stayed there permanently. The Psijics would have known, they would have detected this anomaly. No, the Thalmor were not interested in changing the past. They were simply interested in dominating the future.

Though there was nothing the Psijics could or would do about the Dominion taking what they thought was rightfully theirs, the duty of a Psijic Monk was to uphold balance, and to prevent fundamentalists from trying to end Time. The fact that an ex-Psijic was helping these fundamentalist Thalmor was a horrifying realization. The Caller knew how to create portals, and abused ones that formed on their own between worlds. These natural inter-dimensional portals, blemishes in the veils between existenses, were dangerous. Too many times creatures and objects and diseases passed through, and time and again the Order had to intervene, not always succeeding in preventing cross-contamination. The opening of the Eye caused many of these natural portals to form. The Order could not monitor them all. Too many specimens fell through one way or the other. The last thing Mundus needed was another Dragon Break (which was thankfully limited to one dragon passing through an inter-dimensional portal).

But now the Staff and Eye were recovered, and only one problem remained: dragon masks, and Kynareth’s Visage. Retrieving the visage was Elodie’s new task. She could not fail.


	4. J’zargo and Azijjan

J’zargo arrived in Winterhold in the dead of night. Once at the College, he quickly packed the rest of his meager belongings, left a note for Master Wizard Mirabelle, and set out for Brelyna’s friend’s house in the small town. Brelyna had given him a copy of the key on the off-chance that he, Fa’nir, or Azijjan ever needed some privacy, an escape from the dormitory.

Sitting by the magically-ignited hearth fire, J’zargo opened his purse and removed the charms given to him by his loves. Fa’nir’s charm was polished malachite, its alternating bands of aurora and pine green mirroring the balance J’zargo and Fa’nir created together. J’zargo, like the evergreen, was calm and reliable; Fa’nir, like the aurora, was wild and unpredictable. The bicolored lines surrounded small circles of either shade of green, symbolizing Azijjan, their mutual mate, who loved her contrasting husbands equally. Azijjan’s charm was a rather sizeable piece of unpolished moonstone, which looked somewhat like condensed Moon Sugar. The stone had three dark imperfections amongst the white-iridescent crystals, an obvious homage to their trio. The moonstone, symbolic of Azurah, was especially important to Azijjan who worshipped the goddess.

During their commitment ceremony, ordained by a Priest of Mara they found in nearby Dawnstar as well as a traveling Khajiit Clan Mother, charms had been exchanged between the three and placed into the palms of the recipient as vows were made. J’zargo recalled the ceremony vividly; even the aurora had danced that night in approval.

The sight of the aurora above Winterhold tonight pained J’zargo. Against the gentle fire, the malachite glowed, continuing Fa’nir’s tease.

“ _Rabi Jo’Dar_.” J’zargo whispered into the stone the endearment for his husband, but the words did nothing to calm the burn within. He pressed the charms to his forehead and dropped them into his purse, purposefully tying the thong extra tight.

To brighten his thoughts, J’zargo envisioned Azijjan swelling with life. She carried his kitten, not Fa’nir’s. This was revealed with a spell. Fa’nir never complained; after all, Azijjan would have eventually given him a kitten as well. Even if the kitten had been Fa’nir’s, J’zargo would have raised it as his own. Of course he would have.

J’zargo prayed that his wife was safe in Riften. She had clan-mates there, and they would provide shelter and food and support, but he had not heard from Azijjan in weeks. Too much traveling. Too much. In a week’s time, J’zargo would be in Riften, and with the gold obtained from his questing, perhaps, he would buy them a home.

His nose twitched. The meat was finally crispy, and J’zargo removed the skewer from the fire. 


	5. Onmund

Being buggered by a burly Dremora was the last thing Onmund expected to experience, but after the Khajiit companion, Kynreeve’s cock was easily enjoyable.

Bromjunaar. That’s where the clues led. They camped there, waiting, waiting for the Thalmor to return. Kynreeve often poofed away and back again, bringing with him provisions of questionable origin. Mages and soldiers scoured the Labyrinths, searching for clues, but none were to be found.

Boredom won out, and Kynreeve showed Onmund the secret of Bromjunaar. The sanctuary was a portal, one created by strong magic that never quite faded. But the key, unfortunately, was a cursed hunk of wood cut from Kynareth’s own child, lost somehow to the Thalmor. Even the Dremora, whose powers allowed him to travel anywhere, anywhen, did not know where the key was, or exactly who had it. The duo could have otherwise helped in finding the artifact.

But instead Kynreeve grabbed Onmund by the hand and whisked him into the deep past, and before a fire-lit altar took the Nord mage as he had done many times before. In truth, Onmund didn’t care so much about saving the world, not anymore. Part of him wanted recognition, another part forgiveness, but mostly he just wanted to keep moving. Travel was something Kynreeve offered. Travel, and companionship. As the Dremora released within the mage only to begin another round of rutting, Onmund decided that the past was where he and his demon would stay. At least for now.


	6. Thrynn

Thrynn hated the stench and sting of the poultices used for his injuries, but without a mage around, without expensive healing potions, it was all he had. The Guild used to have a mage to heal the contestants, but she left when Niruin started up his brothel. So Thrynn sat in his dank shared bedroom, alone except for his sleeping friend, cleaning and binding his own contusions and cuts.

His face hurt the most. He had thrown the fight, as instructed. The pay was triple that of a win, this time. Almost as high as the pay that came from servicing the Jarl on the rare occasion she visited the brothel. The Jarl liked Thrynn. The Jarl liked Thrynn several times per month.

He grinned at the thought of boning the rich sabre cat, but the muscle movement pained him, eliciting a pained grunt.

The sleeping man beside him stirred and groaned. Thrynn noticed that he was shivering.

“Damn.”

He thought the cleanse would have finished its course by now. Thrynn skirted the bed and made sure the puke bucket was in the right place, just in case. He sat himself down next to the ill man, dipped a cloth into the bedside pot of water, and washed his friend’s forehead of sweat. The cool cloth woke the man from his daze, and his dulled green eyes scrutinized Thrynn’s bruised and frowning face.

“Wh-what?” He grunted. “Not again, Thrynn.”

“Hey, more hits tonight meant more food. I’ve got a physique to maintain, and you’ve got nothing otherwise.”

The green-eyed man sighed before turning onto his back. He didn’t want to talk about the Guild, about the new business. It all reminded him of his mistake, of his fall from the top. He blamed his actions, and inaction, on the departure of his wife, the forced separation from his children, and his subsequent addiction. It wasn’t anyone else’s fault, not even Mercer’s.

Thrynn gave his friend a comforting pat on the shoulder and left for the cistern. The boss was waiting with a hefty purse.


	7. Yrsarald

Happiness. Ease. So many colors. The fruits were sweet. The meats were juicy. Pies, pies, pies. Not a care in the world crossed his path, not even the burden of his name.

“Rest, rest,” the caressing breeze encouraged. “Your room is not yet painted.”


End file.
